


Injury Recovery

by QueenForADay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Fluff, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannigram - Freeform, He Doesn't Know What To Do, Holding Hands, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Will's journey into consciousness as they recover from the fall.





	Injury Recovery

The first time Will wakes up, it’s only for a couple of seconds.

Darkness engulfed him as they hit the water. He remembers resting against the warmth of Hannibal’s body while they stood there, marvelling at their kill together. He didn’t expect to wake up again.

But there was a boat. Anchored among the waves, it trashed with every lap of water that rolled towards the cliffs. Strong arms hauled him up out of the ocean and on to the deck. A splattering of water hit his face. Rain. A storm was starting to roll in. His eyelids flicker open. The first thing he really _saw_ was Hannibal hunched over him. Looking down, he spotted a growing spot of dark blood in the middle of Hannibal’s shirt. Will blearily reached for the fabric with numb fingers.

He tried to mumble something. He can’t remember what he even wanted to say, but knew that the open wound on the side of his face was making it difficult.

Hannibal was speaking. Over the howling sounds of the ocean and the wind, Will couldn’t hear him. He tried looking at the man’s lips, to see if he could make out the words. He couldn’t.

Another pair of hands were suddenly on him. Will rolled his eyes back to see who else was on the boat. With the last ounce of energy he had left in his body, he met the gaze of Chiyoh. Darkness finally wrapped around him again, tugging him back into a void of black.

In his last moment awake, he sees Chiyoh frown down at him.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a needle in his hand. Will stares down at it as he resurfaces into consciousness again. He hasn’t been out for a while, he notes. His skin is still damp and cold from the air outside.

Chiyoh kneels on the ground beside his bunk. She holds his hand firmly in hers, while carefully slides a cannula into a vein in the back of his hand. He feels the needle pinch his skin. He feels the chilly feeling running through his veins as morphine is pumped into him. His eyelids flicker closed as his muscles sigh, eased into looseness from the morphine.

She takes out the injection needle, leaving the cannula in. Reaching to the side, she snaps the cap off of a long slender tube and connects it to the cannula. Will watches her. His eyes are starting to strain again. It won’t be long until he’s pulled back under. He wants to stay awake. He wants to know about Hannibal.

He manages to move his fingers. It’s the barest flicker over a movement – a twitch, nothing more – but Chiyoh catches it.

She looks up at him, staring for a moment. She silently reaches out with her other hand, dragging down the blankets that are covering his entire body. He’s naked, he realises. He watches his own body violently shake against the cold. Chiyoh puts his hand on his chest, resting it there, and pulls the blankets back over him. She takes a moment to make sure he’s completely covered. The blankets are thick. Warm slowly starts to bloom in his bones, slowly wrapping around his body and making the shaking quieten down.

A breath leaves his nose as a sigh.

Chiyoh stands up, happy to leave Will sleep. When she starts to walk to the other side of the cabin, Will sees it. The familiar blackness starts to tug him down into sleep.

He sees Hannibal. And Hannibal sees him. He’s watching Will silently from the other side of the room. Slumped over himself, he has a hand pressed firmly against his side. With his chest exposed, Will can see it. It’s the last thing he sees before he’s tugged into sleep again: blood pulsing out between Hannibal’s fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s bright when he wakes up.

He squints his eyes shut as he slowly comes back around. It takes him a couple of minutes to adjust. When he’s sure that his eyes are suited for the brightness of the room, he opens them again. He can hear gulls screeching and cawing up on the deck.  He looks around the cabin. It’s sparsely furnished, with most of the couches being turned into bunks. He’s on one, with another near the stairs leading up on deck. He spots Chiyoh’s jacket sprawled across the seat, along with a rifle, some spare blankets and a pillow.

Will looks down at himself. Some of his blankets have slid off of him during the night. There are a couple of cuts on his chest: ones that have healed over, leaving dried bloody scabs in their place. His skin looks a sickly colour, but he notices that his body isn’t shaking anymore. There’s an IV line running up to a stationary rack. Two bags of clear fluid hanging from them. He’s attached to both. He recognises one of them as saline. The other is antibiotics.

The side of his face starts to throb. It’s not painful, but _fuck_ is it annoying. Memories of the cliff flood back to him – slaying the dragon, becoming, the fall. The blood that washed their old lives away and the sea water that baptised them into their new ones.

 _Hannibal_.

Will’s blood runs cold as his thoughts turn to the other man. The last time he saw Hannibal, there was blood. He remembers the blood spilling out between the other man’s fingers. He remembers the look of muted panic in Hannibal’s eyes – something he tried to hide when he saw Will looking at him. Will doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but it’s not enough time for Hannibal to die. Surely it’s not. He can’t die. Will’s panicked eyes flick through the cabin, searching for the other man. His breath is caught in his throat when he spots him. There’s another bunk in the cabin, slightly behind Will. He has to contort his neck and body awkwardly to see him.

Hannibal is lying on his back, covered up to his neck in blankets. Will sees two clear tubes running from underneath the blankets to another IV rack by the bunk.

But Hannibal is motionless. Will watches for a moment. He sees Hannibal’s chest rise slightly and falls back down. Will’s breath leaves him almost violently. _Thank you_ , he says to no one in particular. Whether it’s God, one of His angels, or something else entirely, he’s not quite sure. But he thanks _something_ for keeping Hannibal here. Will watches him for what seems to be a couple of minutes.

The sound of footsteps makes him look to the front of the cabin. Chiyoh steps down below deck, keeping the door open to keep an eye on the mast.

“How is he?” he rasps as she walks past. He clears his throat and tries to ask again. Chiyoh doesn’t even acknowledge him. Whether she’s heard him or not, he doesn’t know. After a couple of minutes, she looks at him from over her shoulder. Will clears his throat. “How is he?” he asks again.

The only answer he gets is cawing of seagulls outside.

He manages to stay awake for a couple of hours. Placated by the slow drip of morphine into his body, he stays on the good-side of lucid for that time where he’s awake. Chiyoh busies herself with tasks around the cabin. She packs away some blankets into cabinets and turns her attention to another saline bag that’s lying on the countertop of a cabinet. Silently, Chiyoh strides over to Will’s side of the cabin, grabbing on to the IV rack.

She wordlessly unhooks the almost empty bag and switches it to the full one.

“Sleep,” she orders him. The firm look she accompanies with the order almost forces his eyelids to droop closed.

 

* * *

 

 

Gentle voices greet Will as he resurfaces again. He keeps his eyes closed as the boat gently rocks with the night waves. The light in the cabin is on, softly shining against his eyelids. He gently buries his nose into his pillow and sighs, mimicking the sight of sleep.

“He asked for you.”

“Yes. I imagine he would have.”

There’s a pause.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Cruel.”

“You’re awake now. You can tell him yourself.”

The length of the next pause between them is so long, Will thinks that either Hannibal has fallen back asleep, or Chiyoh has just given up on speaking to the other man. Then he hears her speak again.

“We’re making good time. Cuba is only a couple of days away. Given that the wind is good, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Will you be able for dry-land?”

There’s a grunt from Hannibal. “I should be healed adequately enough to move.” He hears Hannibal shuffle around slightly. “How are Will’s injuries?”

 _Hurting like a bitch_ , he answers internally.

Chiyoh answers instead. “There will be a scar, but he’ll live.”

There’s one last pregnant pause between them all. “You’re both very lucky to still be alive.”

“We have you as our charge, _mano _meilė__.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they get to Cuba, Will’s able to sit on the edge of his bunk by himself. He keeps his hands tightly gripping his knees, afraid that dizziness will slam him back into unconsciousness. Chiyoh has spent the last few days weaning him off of morphine. He’s already sweat through a couple of loose t-shirts as his body refuses to deal with the pain of a _hole in the side of his face_.

He saw the stitching. Inside his mouth is stitched up too. He’s spent days running his tongue along the stitch work inside. Chiyoh did it during that first night, when Will didn’t know what was real or fake. Where he didn’t know if they were really dead or alive.

He runs his fingers over the raised line of flash. It cuts a bit into his beard – the only way he’ll know where the scar is. He asked Chiyoh for a small mirror a couple of days ago, and honestly, he was expecting a mutilated mess of a scar. If anything, it’ll only be a slight light line running just underneath his cheekbone.

Hannibal watches him. They acknowledged each other a couple of days ago. No words were said between them. Nothing had to. Chiyoh had been checking on Hannibal’s gunshot wound when Hannibal rolled his head over to the side and locked eyes with Will. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lip as Will flushed, and turned around to sleep facing the wall.

Now, the other man sits on the edge of his own bunk, mirroring Will’s position. He’s bare-chested, with his entire abdomen wrapped tightly with white bandages. Small flecks of red still seep through the white fabric. But Chiyoh keeps assuring them both that Hannibal’s wound is healing well.

“Cuba?” Will asks, looking up from his knees to Hannibal.

Hannibal’s maroon eyes lock with Will’s. He nods firmly. “No extradition laws exist between Cuba and the United States,” he explains simply.

A smile creeps up to Will’s lips. _Trust Hannibal Lecter to think of extradition laws and foreign relations on death’s door_. But the thought passes him: how long has Hannibal planned this? Chiyoh had waited for them at the bottom of that cliff, boat’s engine turned on and supplies ready to treat their injuries.

Chiyoh steps down into the cabin. She looks between the two of them with a neutral expression. “We’re here.

 

* * *

 

 

Will watches Chiyoh bring the last of the supplies into the house. Their home is a villa hidden in the hills of Baracoa; a small town on the eastern-most point of Cuba. It looks out on to the sea but has enough cover from forests and hills to keep them hidden for a while. The villa is big enough for the two of them: two-story, with whitewashed clean walls and tall lancet windows. The open-plan layout of the villa makes the space look larger than it actually is.

The sun is perched high in the sky. Wearing cotton pants and a loose shirt, Will rubs at the back of his neck. Sweat gathers at the tips of his growing hair, dripping down on to the neckline of his shirt.

Chiyoh and Hannibal talk quietly between themselves. Will frowns as he sees Hannibal reach out to the railing of the porch. He leans his bodyweight on to one side, his grip on the railing tightening. Something flashes across his face, but he schools his expression into neutrality.

Will watches them both. Chiyoh is leaving. He knows, in the back of his mind, that she won’t wander far. Hannibal is still injured and recovering. She was meant to leave after the train. But she was there at the bottom of the cliff. Chiyoh is always a phone call away. Will’s bones still ache from the fall. His cheek still throbs, but the pain is manageable now. He ignores it most days.

Hannibal reaches out with his free hand and brings it to Chiyoh’s cheek. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face. It’s a small movement. Will barley catches it. But Hannibal drops his hand back down to his side within a few seconds. Chiyoh inclines her head slightly, bowing, and then turning on her heels.

She walks down the front porch of the house, and starts striding towards him.

“There are vials of morphine left,” she tells him firmly. “They’re in the bathroom cabinet – the one over the sink. Only give it to him if he looks like he needs it.”

Will nods. “And any antibiotics?”

Chiyoh’s expression doesn’t change. “The infection is gone. He should be fine. If something does happen, my phone number is in the burner phones you both have.”

Hannibal watches them from the porch. Will meets his gaze and smiles faintly. “I’ll look after him, don’t worry about it.”

Chiyoh looks over her shoulder to Hannibal.  “You’ll look after each other.”

 

* * *

 

 

While the days are blisteringly hot, the nights are cold. Without any clouds in the sky during the daytime, the bare skies make the air bitterly cold. Will closes the last of the lancet windows of the house. He draws the curtains shut. Their nearest neighbours are a fifteen-minute drive away, and at the bottom of the hill their villa is perched upon. Still, Will’s heart beats a bit slower knowing no prying eyes can spy on them.

The house is quiet. The rest of the day was spent moving the last of their supplies into storage areas. The kitchen was meticulously inspected by Hannibal as Will made sure they had enough medication stocked in the bathroom upstairs. He took that time to wander around the upstairs of the villa. It’s just as spacious as downstairs – a long, reaching hallway and two bedrooms sprouting from it, with bathrooms, a storage space, and a closet. Two bedrooms, he noted, separated on either end of a hallway.

Hannibal’s in the living room, sitting silently in an armchair in front of the fireplace. The only light in the room comes from the fire and a few sparse candles dotted throughout the room. The light from the fire softly highlights Hannibal’s features. The other man watches the flames in the fire.

Will walks over to a cabinet housing far too many bottles of hard liquor. Rifling through it, he finds an old bottle of whiskey. He pours an ample amount into a crystal tumbler.

“Sit with me, Will.”

The sound of Hannibal’s voice almost startles the bottle out of Will’s hands. He puts the bottle away and picks up his glass. “No thanks, I...I think I’ll head to bed.”

Hannibal looks over at him and regards him for a moment. “Indulge me.”

Will’s feet carry him to the vacant armchair at the other side of the fire, rather than the stairs that lead upstairs. Hannibal watches him. Will sighs heavily as he settles back into the chair. “This seems familiar,” he smiles faintly, gesturing to the vacant space between the two of them. Hannibal’s own smile is barely there. The glow of the fireplace highlights it though.

“You’re my patient no more, Will,” Hannibal says. There’s a sense of loss to those words, Will notes. He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he asks: “what am I now? To you, I mean.”

As soon as the words come out of his mouth, it’s too late to snap his jaw shut. He would flounder, try and back-peddle that what he said and what he meant are two completely different things. Instead, now, he brings his glass to his lips and takes a slow sip of whiskey. He moves the alcohol to one side of his mouth, avoiding the stitches on the other.

Hannibal is regarding him silently. “Honestly, I have no idea what you now are to me.”

Will takes another drink. The only sound between them is the crackling of the fire. Will watches the flames wrap around the logs, crawling up into the chimney. He feels Hannibal shuffle in the chair beside him. There’s a small grunt of pain, followed by a long deep sigh.

Will looks over. “Do you want morphine?”

Hannibal’s eyes are closed. His brow is furrowed. Eventually, his neutral expression returns. “No, no, I’m quite alright.”

Will isn’t convinced. “You were shot,” he says levelly, “and Chiyoh performed surgery on you on a _boat_ with minimal supplies.”

“Do you suggest we go to a hospital?”

The question makes Will stop for a second. “No,” he replies simply.

The silence that falls between them isn’t awkward. He knows that Hannibal has retreated into his mind palace. The other man’s eyes are closed, and his face has a vacancy that signals him not fully being in this realm. Will drinks the rest of his drink in silence.

With warm whiskey washing through his veins, his fingers twitch. _Reach out to him_ , his mind unhelpfully whispers to him. _Fuck it. You fell off a cliff for him_.

Before he has a chance to scold his own brain, his fingers have reached out through the space between them. His fingertips brush over the back of Hannibal’s hand. The skin there is soft and warm, Will notes. Everything in his body screams at him to _move_.

Hannibal’s eyes open slowly, an unreadable expression on his face as he looks down at Will’s fingers on his hand. Hannibal turns his hand, splaying his fingers out. Will catches a leg of the armchair with his feet, pulling it towards Hannibal’s. He lets his fingers fit into the gaps of Hannibal’s.

“Chiyoh said that we were going to look after each other,” Will mumbles, watching Hannibal’s fingers retract and curl around Will’s. The warmth of Hannibal’s skin lights his flesh on fire. Will can feel it spreading up his wrist and into his arm.

Hannibal’s mouth is pulled into a soft smile. “Yes, it would appear that way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Pop over for a chat, or to see my eventual descent into madness.


End file.
